


Just the Right Age

by TheDistantDusk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 18:22:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17903213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDistantDusk/pseuds/TheDistantDusk
Summary: He isn't 17 anymore. That much is a given.





	Just the Right Age

He isn't 17 anymore. That much is a given.

Gone is the blushing and stammering and awkward positioning. Gone are the sunlight days of trembling fingers and whimpers carried on the warm breeze. Gone is the innocence they'd carried in their hearts before a fractured man had ripped his way through — mind, body, and soul. Naturally, gone is any  _other_  type of innocence they'd had, either.

 _And thank Merlin for that_ , Ginny thinks as his lips descend down the creamy expanse of her neck. His stubble is grown in just enough to grate against her, just enough to send pulses of heat through her lower body. She squeezes and tightens her thighs, squirming against her knickers.

It isn't often he takes control...but she  _loves_  it.

"Let's keep these on." His fingertips dance across soaking lace, and she knows it's not a question.

Normally, she'd smirk or giggle ( _"Overly confident, are we?";_   _"Good things come to those who wait, Potter."_ ) but she can't bring herself to deny the pulsing, the  _tugging_... not this time.

She's scarcely able to move her mouth, much less pretend she's not as... enthralled... as Harry is. He knows it, too; he knows she wants him as much as he wants her.

Harry's teeth scrape along her jaw. Hard enough to leave a mark. Hard enough to make her moan.

They used to have time for his mouth to wander lower, for her tongue to suck and twirl. But now they're  _markedly_  better at this. Now he knows how to make her breath hitch as she hurdles over the edge, with or without the expert pressure of his fingers. Now  _she_  knows how to clench herself around him while stars explode behind his eyes.

"You get me  _so_  fucking hard." His voice is scarcely above a growl. It rolls through her chest like a landslide crashing over a cliff, and she blinks up at him, eyes hooded and dark.

Harry nips at her jaw again, angles himself so she can feel it. So she can feel  _him_. "You've always gotten me  _so_  fucking hard."

Her lips twitch in a smirk, but she doesn't disagree; she'd been there, too. Back when he hadn't known what to  _do_  with it. Back when neither had she.

His palms glide down the planes of her stomach as he sucks at her pulse point, and she keens beneath his touch. As promised, he doesn't bother to take off her knickers when he reaches them. Pushing them to the side will have to do.

He parts her folds with practiced fingers, slipping one — then the next — inside her sopping heat. She hisses and grinds against his hand; it really is torture, she thinks. The best kind of torture.

Then his fingers travel  _up_ , just a bit... and  _yesssss_. Her back arches, her mouth parts in a gasping moan, and now it's not torture... it's white-hot bliss. He captures her whimper with his mouth, scraping his teeth against the ridge of her swollen lip.

They've done this enough that she knows he's  _barely_  containing himself, his body supported beneath shaking arms. He's about to break.

And so is she.

"Now," she murmurs, chest heaving. Her mouth grazes his ear, and on a whisper: " _Please_ , Harry..."

 _Get inside me_  is the conclusion that's unspoken, but nonetheless mutually understood.

Harry releases that low, reverberating moan again... but he doesn't need to be told twice.

He's hard, throbbing in his right hand, and he shifts her knickers away with the left; they both shudder when he scrapes himself across black lace.

"Ginny," he rumbles, and she knows what he's asking: He has to look at her while he does this.

She complies without a second thought. And then, just as quickly, nothing matters in the world except his skin on hers, except brown on green, except the way he's grunting as he inches himself slowly...  _achingly_  slowly...  _impossibly_  slowly...

They release deep, rasping breaths. He tilts forward, angles himself up, prepared to ease in with pressured strokes...

A high-pitched wail pierces through their panting and mewling, through the sultry darkness.

In an instant, any semblance of arousal shatters before their eyes. They sigh in unison, rising from the bed in a huffing bustle of bare skin. Someone makes a remark about night feeds. Someone mentions nappies. Then they throw on dressing gowns and pad into the nursery, lamenting that they'd probably be too tired to finish, anyway.

Neither one of them says it aloud, but two things are immediately apparent.

One, they're  _definitely_  not 17 anymore.

And two, their baby has inherited his uncle's sense of timing.


End file.
